


The Kissing Bandit

by Blondie54x



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: AU, M/M, shades of the movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-23 11:09:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4874452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blondie54x/pseuds/Blondie54x
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is an AU story in which Illya Kuryakin is, as he was fated to be, Number 2, section 2 in the U.N.C.L.E., New York, but Napoleon Solo -  who took a left turn instead of a right at the crossroads of his life - chose an altogether different path. Oblivious to each other’s existence, events (or should I say destiny) are about to bring them together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Kissing Bandit

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this many, many moons ago, but on re-reading it, was struck by how similar in character my Napoleon, the thief, is to the movie version. Seems I'm not the only one who could see the roguish crook in Solo.

 

The front page of the New York Herald-Tribune, March 1964:-

_Kissing Bandit Strikes Again!_

_New York’s most audacious thief struck once again in the city last night, in a daring raid on Senator Jefferson’s home. The perpetrator struck during a dinner party, holding his hostages at gunpoint as the Senator’s wife was forced to secure guests into their dining chairs with a roll of duck tape. The thief, nicknamed the Kissing Bandit for his habit of stealing a kiss from his female victims, managed to get away with over $150,000 worth of jewellery and cash._

_At a press conference this morning, Mrs. Jefferson told reporters, with a smile, “He kissed me. I didn’t see his face, though. He wore a black mask...”_

 

_4 months later, at the Mansion of Maximilian Renaud_

If Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin had wanted to taste true decadence, he couldn’t have fared better than one of Maximilian Renaud’s parties. The food was rich and abundant, the champagne copious and effervescent, and the women... Illya had never seen so many sparkling jewels in one place, and he wasn’t thinking about the diamonds and pearls around their pretty necks. Even at a costume party, it seemed the female contingent chose their outfits to show off their best assets.

He turned as a delicate hand slipped over his silk clad shoulder. April Dancer, proving his point, looked sleek and sexy in a figure-hugging cat costume. Smiling, she looked him over with approval before pulling up the tail of her one-piece suit and flicking it playfully under his nose. “And what did you come as, as if I have to ask?”

“Cossack,” he replied, spitting out the word like an insult. April grinned at his discomfort. Illya hated parties and usually did his utmost to avoid gatherings of more than four people. She had to admit, though, he looked perfect in his costume. Dressed in a loose silk shirt, tight pants and knee length leather boots - he had discarded the sheepskin hat before entering the building, as being too impractical - he was definitely one of the sexiest looking men here.

“Where’s Mark?” Illya asked, as his eyes flitted about the crowd.

April moved closer to his ear, so as not to be overheard. “Arranging a little distraction for Mr. Renaud so you can perform your duties without him walking in on you. By the way, speaking of which, where are your tools for the job?” she asked curiously, as the agent didn’t seem to have any pockets in his outfit. In answer to her question, he patted the red satin band tied about his waist. “Oh,” she said, raising her hand to stroke the area. She could feel the bulge of a small, leather wallet beneath. “Not very big, is it?”

“It’s not the size that counts, it’s what you do with it. Didn’t Mark ever tell you that?”

She laughed and was about to tell him that Mark had never had any complaints about his equipment, when a masked man, clad in black, knocked into the Russian.

“Excuse me,” the partygoer said, with an easy smile. Ungraciously, Kuryakin merely glared in return. In the course of the last half hour, he had been bumped into, had toes trodden on and had been goosed twice; he was in no mood to be polite.

April nodded as the interloper moved away. “Another Zorro,” she said as she eyed the man’s costume. “He’s the sixth one I’ve seen tonight.” She turned her bright gaze back in his direction. “At least I’m the only tabby I’ve seen around.” She glanced at her watch and leaned in close again to whisper. “They should be in position. Time for you to do your cat-burglar act. Hey, maybe you should be wearing this outfit,” she said with a wink _. Now, that would be a sight to see..._

Illya handed her the drink he had been nursing and with a parting wave, slipped up the wide staircase to their right.

 

In the plush, carpeted corridor at the top of the staircase, several partygoers meandered around. Kuryakin casually strolled to the end, checking over his shoulder one last time before slipping down the passage to the right. Mentally, he ran through the diagrams he’d seen at headquarters, counting off the doors till he reached his destination - Renaud’s study. He stood a moment, listening for sounds, and when none came, he removed the leather wallet from his waistband, extracted a pair of small picks, and dealt quickly with the lock. Silently, he slipped inside.

He moved quickly over to the filing cabinet in the corner of the spacious office, thumbing again through the selection of picks. This lock, too, gave in to his expertise, and within minutes he was flicking through files until he found the folder containing the information he was looking for. He glanced over the wording in the file, smiling as it helpfully informed him that all he needed was contained in the microfilm situated in the inside pocket of the file. He pulled the flap open, withdrawing a four-inch long strip of film and carefully placing it inside the lining of his wallet.

Cautiously, he replaced the file and relocked the cabinet, checking all was intact before tucking the wallet back into waistband and exiting the study. It would be a while before their host noticed anything was missing and, with luck, they’d be long gone by then. Time to return to April and the party. Perhaps he could persuade her to call it a night.

When Illya turned the corner onto the landing, Dancer stood nearby in animated conversation with a stranger. She glanced gratefully in the Russian’s direction, saying loudly, for the benefit of her unwanted companion, “Oh, here’s my husband now. Darling,” she cooed over the man’s shoulder. “Would you excuse me,” she said to the stranger, and made her way over to Kuryakin, planting a kiss on his cheek. “Your timing is impeccable,” she murmured in his ear.

“Anyone we should worry about?” Kuryakin asked quietly, slipping into the husband role by stretching his arm about her waist.

“Nope, just your ordinary, everyday masher. Every party has them. Nothing I couldn’t handle. Your timing was perfect, though. Another minute of that and I would have had to use the knock-out gas on him.”

They started to stroll to the top of the stairs, arm in arm, and stopped as they saw Renaud and two of his men coming up the stairs. Illya turned casually, pulling Dancer with him into a room on the left. The library, if he accurately recalled the map. They should be safe in there for a while.

Illya paused a moment as they entered the dimly lit room and closed the door behind them. When he turned, he saw that several people were already there, sitting around a reading table, though, curiously, no one spoke as all eyes turned expectantly towards the new arrivals. Kuryakin was about to apologize, thinking they had intruded on a private gathering, when he heard the key turn in the lock behind him. He spun around and was instantly confronted by one of the guests dressed as Zorro. The handgun pointing at Illya’s chest told him he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. As if reading his mind, the masked man smiled, a gleaming row of immaculate white teeth, and gestured for the two new arrivals to back further into the room.

“Well, well. The Cossack and the pussycat. This makes my day,” Zorro said, his badly faked accent adding a somewhat dubious character to the costume. Addressing April, he said, “If you wouldn’t mind dropping your purse on to the table with the other items, señorita, then you can sit in one of the chairs.” Dancer reluctantly complied, only noticing as she sat that the others were already bound to their chairs.

Their masked captor turned to a sweaty faced, middle-aged man, tossing him a roll of two-inch wide duct tape. “Señor, if you would do the honors? I believe you know the routine?”

The rotund man turned it nervously in his hands, speaking to April with an apologetic shrug. “I’m sorry, miss.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” she said with a sigh. “It’s not like it’s the first time,” she muttered to herself. Kuryakin started to move towards another of the vacant chairs set around the table.

“Not you,” Zorro commanded, pointing the gun at the Russian. He waved it towards a wooden staircase at the back of the room. “Over there, I think, away from your companion.”

April sat, making sure to tense her muscles to allow a little slack in the bindings as the tape was wound around her wrists, securing her to the armrest of the chair. The fat man finished, giving her an apologetic squeeze to the shoulder.

She turned her head, watching as Illya was bound too, his arms stretched high and his wrists secured to the rail above his head, before the bandit finished by binding the fat man to another of the vacant chairs.

Zorro glanced briefly at his blond captive before walking back over to the table where Dancer sat. He picked up her purse, sifting through the contents. April watched silently, praying he would open her perfume and inhale the fragrance masking a fast acting knock-out gas. Sadly, the spray was ignored as he frowned at the scant contents. Zorro found the few, meagre dollars she carried with her for emergencies, fanned them thoughtfully before shoving them back into her purse.

“You travel light for a woman.” He leaned over, placing a quick kiss against her lips. “Perhaps next time, senorita?”

April allowed the contact; under the circumstances it seemed pointless to resist. Besides, if she were being honest with herself, there was something rather appealing about the man.

The bandit straightened, looking back over at the Russian agent. “And last, but by no means least.”

As he moved away, April began to work on loosening the tape binding her wrists to the chair arm.

Illya watched cautiously as the bandit approached, a brilliant smile on his lightly tanned face. Zorro paused before him, studying Illya’s face intently, so near, the Russian could smell the delicate cologne that the bandit used. Zorro seemed to be waiting for something, so Kuryakin said helpfully, “I don’t carry a purse.”

Zorro grinned, his teeth a perfect row of white enamel. “No, but perhaps you have something else for me, hm?” His hand rose to flick the cape over his shoulder before moving to rest on Illya’s chest. Amused eyes stayed locked on the frosty blue ones before him as his hand slid over the silk clad torso, searching from the left side of his chest to the right, sliding slowly over the muscles, lingering on the small bud of a nipple. His wandering fingers came across a hard disc hanging around the Cossack’s neck and he paused.

Seemingly from nowhere, the bandit produced a switchblade, pressing the catch to release the bright steel, and carefully proceeded to slice through the strands of cotton that held each button in place. He slowly made his way down and as each one was severed, the dark eyes returned their searching gaze to the agent’s face. Kuryakin returned the stare defiantly, as the last button finally dropped to the floor and Zorro, carefully using the tip of the knife, laid the two halves of the shirt aside to expose his pale chest. Illya frowned as Zorro sighed happily, giving a low appreciative whistle. Illya responded with his customary glare. The point of the knife moved on, slipping carefully under the chain of the medallion around Illya’s neck and holding the small, gold icon up for inspection. Illya froze, concerned about its possible loss. It had belonged to his father, and his father’s father before him. It was the only possession that still linked him to his deceased family and its loss would be unbearable.

“Please, it is of no value, except to me,” he hurriedly told the thief.

The bandit’s eyes held a hint of compassion and understanding. “Then you shall keep it.” The medallion was released and the knife folded and returned to a hidden pocket. The bandit continued his slow search, leaning in uncomfortably close as his hands reached around, sliding around the blond’s back, petting along his spine before circling back to the front and sliding down towards the waistband of Illya’s pants. It was an over-familiar search, and Illya tensed as the hand stopped at the red satin sash around his waist. He tried to move away, but was restricted by the balustrade behind him.

“Well, well. What’s this?” the masked man asked, tut-tutting as he patted the bulge beneath his stroking fingers. “You are hiding something from me. Shall we see what it is?” His warm hand returned to Illya’s waist, sliding down between the waistband and skin, feeling for the object hidden there. Strong fingers snagged the leather wallet and withdrew it, flipping it open dexterously with one hand, and a set of lock-pick tools fell to the floor. Zorro’s eyebrows rose in a silent question.

“I’m a locksmith,” Kuryakin explained smoothly.

“Really?” The masked man looked unconvinced. “Working overtime, hm?” he whispered. His attention went back to the wallet, studying the picture on the driver’s license, before checking the rest of the contents.

“There’s nothing of value in there, either,” Kuryakin growled, worried that the film would be discovered. The masked man shrugged, pocketing the wallet and its contents.

“Please,” Illya said desperately, “take the money, but leave the wallet. It has sentimental value.”

“You know, I feel the same way. Call it... something to remember you by.” Then, without warning, he quickly leaned forward, catching Illya behind the neck as he pressed a kiss forcefully against the agent’s mouth. The shock of the unexpected contact froze Illya into compliance. As the masked man pulled away, he whispered to the stunned blond, “And that’s something for you to remember me by. Adios, amigo. Perhaps we will meet again, one day, eh?”

“You can count on it,” Kuryakin muttered darkly. The masked man grinned at his response, gathering his cape about him as he walked to the window. He paused a moment, perched on the sill of the open window, for one last look around. With a grin, he flicked the brim of his hat in the Russian’s direction and disappeared over the edge and out into the night.

 

As Kuryakin expected, the debriefing in Mr. Waverly’s office following the assignment was an embarrassment. Not simply from having to report the unfortunate loss of the microfilm to his superior, but also having to relate the rest of the sordid details, too. The entire episode had been a humiliating farce.

And his colleague wasn’t being much help.

“He kissed you?” Mark repeated, in a loud, incredulous voice that Illya was sure could be heard outside the soundproofed room.

Irritated at having to repeat himself, Kuryakin grated out, “That’s what I said, yes. He kissed me. He did kiss April, too,” he pointed out.

“She’s a woman!”

“Well, he is called the Kissing Bandit,” April said cheerfully. Kuryakin glared in her direction. “Maybe he just likes blonds,” she added unhelpfully.

Kuryakin’s glare swung away, turning back to Mark in expectation of a similar derogatory remark. Instead, Slate said, with a puzzled frown, “Well, naturally, I assumed he only kissed the ladies.”

Illya shrugged. “It is possible he may have done this before. Perhaps embarrassment stopped his male victims from reporting it. They may consider it a slur on their masculinity.”

“You reported it,” Slate pointed out.

“I am an U.N.C.L.E. agent, Mark; it is my duty to report the facts.”

April smiled at this typical response. Nothing seemed to faze Illya.

Waverly coughed, returning their attention to the business at hand. “Putting aside this thief’s amorous proclivities, we need to retrieve that microfilm, as soon as possible. Perhaps, Miss Dancer, you could liaise with the police department, find out what, if anything, they may have on this... ‘Kissing Bandit.’ Meanwhile, gentlemen, I’d like you to start gathering information from this end. As soon as you’ve completed your outstanding reports, that is,” he added with a reproving glare in Slate’s direction. They stood as Waverly turned, effectively dismissing his agents without bothering to watch their departure.

 

It had been three days now and Illya felt he was no nearer finding Zorro than he had been at the beginning of his search. He sifted through the newspaper clippings again, carefully arranging them in chronological order first, then geographical order second.

Nothing fit. There was no pattern to his activity, no way of predicting his next possible target. All his victims were wealthy; all reported that the man was masked and had a foreign accent, though the accent Illya had heard was clearly faked.

Then there was the kiss. The bandit had made it his trademark, though Illya was still puzzled as to why he should have been the recipient of the masked man’s attentions. He touched a finger to his lips, wondering what it had been about himself that had attracted the assault. No, that wasn’t right. Assault was too strong a word. And he had felt no real anger, no real shame. Indeed, the kiss had been pleasant – much more than pleasant. It had left him branded to such an extent that it had invaded his dreams that night and subsequently he woke, hot, sweaty and in a state of arousal that could only be relieved by his own right hand.

His musings were interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Come in,” he called.

Mandy from Translations slipped inside, closing the door firmly behind her. Illya resisted the temptation to groan out loud.

“What can I do for you, Mandy?” he said, trying to remain polite.

She shook her head. “It’s more a case of what I can do for you.” Uninvited, she dragged a chair nearer the desk and sat down. “I heard about your latest case – The Kissing Bandit?”

Illya nodded slowly, hoping the more pertinent details of the case were not being bandied around.

“And I have a theory. Would you like to hear it?” she asked enthusiastically.

“Mandy,” he replied, reining in his impatience, “don’t you have work to do?”

Oblivious to his mood, she shook her head. “I’m on my break. Anyway, me and some of the other girls in Translations have been reading about this Kissing Bandit." She paused to sigh. “Oh, he’s so romantic, isn’t he? Well, anyway, we’ve been talking, and do you know what we think?” She leaned nearer, her voice dropping lower. “He isn’t foreign at all. Because one report quotes him as saying--”

“He’s American,” Illya replied gruffly, cutting her off mid-sentence.

“What?’

“American. One of your fellow countrymen,” he added, making it sound like an accusation.

“Oh.” Mandy seemed to deflate. “How do you know?”

“He spoke to me. His accent was atrocious.”

“Ah,” she nodded, as if this made sense. She watched, disappointed, as Illya’s attention returned to the reports before him, effectively dismissing her. “Well, if I can help you in any other way, just give me a call.” She rose from her seat, but still hovered expectantly.

Illya seemed to suddenly remember she was there. “Thank you. Now, if you don’t mind...?” Illya waved a hand at the paperwork in front of him.

“Oh, sure. Of course, I’ll leave you in peace. If I come up with any other ideas, I’ll--”

“Send me a memo.”

“Right.” She pursed her lips, turned, and left.

He shook his head as she disappeared through the door. Poor Mandy. A frustrated spy trapped in a clerk’s body. A female Walter Mitty, desperate for some excitement. Either way, her enthusiasm was misplaced and, at times, irksome.

He stood to gather the paperwork and the door opened again. He was about to snap at the intruder, but when he turned, he found his partner standing in the doorway.

“Lunch,” Mark informed him, tapping meaningfully at his watch. Illya glanced at his own timepiece. Almost one thirty. He gave his partner a nod of assent and slipped into his jacket, following him down the corridor.

Mark took a cord hat out of his pocket and slipped it haphazardly onto his head. “There’s a nice little Italian restaurant opened a couple of blocks away. Thought we might give it a try.”

They exited Del Floria’s and strolled among the midday crowd towards their destination. As they walked, Mark gave his partner the latest information on the new improvements being made to the U.N.C.L.E. Special. Illya was usually keen on gadgets of any kind, whether practical or recreational, but he seemed disinterested, distracted.

Over the years, section two agents developed an uncanny sense for impending trouble. Illya had that feeling now. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled and he felt the shiver of expectation run up his spine. He stopped and turned, scanning the faces in the crowd behind them.

Slate came to a stop beside him. “Illya? What’s wrong?”

There was nothing to see, nothing concrete to explain, it was just an impression and Illya took a moment before he replied, almost sounding embarrassed. “Nothing. I just had a feeling….” He voice trailed off as he shook his head. “Forget it. I’m hungry, let’s eat.”

 

Lunch was a little delayed – the restaurant was busy and they had to wait for a table – but eventually they sat down and began to eat. Mark had the Lasagna, but his partner just ordered a light salad.

Slate was watching his partner with concern as they waited for their lunch. “You know, you should eat something more substantial. A few lettuce leaves won’t put any meat on those skinny bones of yours.”

Illya waved off his concerns with a flick of his hand. “It’s all I can stomach, at the moment.” His senses were still on high alert, leaving him twitchy and making his stomach queasy.

“What’s wrong?” He saw the Russian glance about the restaurant again.

Illya shook his head. “I can’t shake off this feeling that we’re being followed.”

Mark leaned casually forward, resting his arms on the table as his eyes flickered around, taking in the other occupants. He suddenly tensed, putting Illya on guard. “What?” he asked the Englishman quietly.

Slate sighed. “I think you’re right. We are being followed.”

A shadow loomed by their table and Illya glanced up at a woman in a grey trench coat and dark glasses. She slipped her glasses off, and Illya growled, “Mandy!”

"Hi, guys. Can I join you?”

 

Lunch had been a waste of time, as far as Illya was concerned. What little appetite he’d had had been reduced further by Mandy’s incessant chatter, and despite her appearance, Illya still felt uneasy. He was grateful to return to his office to complete his backlog of reports, while Mark slipped off to a team meeting.

Illya had already made rapid headway through the first few files when the phone rang, interrupting his concentration. He picked it up, brusquely announcing his name. “Kuryakin.”

“Mr. Kuryakin? There’s an outside call for you,” Jenny from Communications announced.

Puzzled, Illya said, “Put it through.” The line clicked, and he repeated, “Kuryakin here.”

“Mr. Kuryakin? I think I have something you want.”

Illya froze. The voice was familiar, though the fake accent had disappeared, replaced by a rich, relaxed American accent.

_Zorro!_

“My wallet,” Illya replied simply.

There was a soft chuckle down the line. “Yes. I found its contents rather interesting. However, they may be more useful in your hands than mine. Perhaps you would like to call round and pick it up.”

Could it be that easy? No, he didn’t have that much luck. “All right,” he agreed. “Tell me where and when.”

“The Gold Star Trailer Park, this afternoon at 2.00 p.m., under the clock tower. And be sure to come alone. If I see anyone following you, I won’t show up.” The line clicked and buzzed as it was disconnected.

 

“Are you sure you don’t want any back up?” Slate asked as he walked through the garage next to his partner.

Illya laughed at the idea. “What for? I’m going to pick up my wallet. How difficult could that be?” He sighed at his partner’s look of skepticism. “Look, I’ll be sure to carry a homing device. If I don’t contact you within the hour, come looking for me.

Slate glanced at his watch. “An hour then.” He squeezed his friend’s arm. “Take care, mate.”

 

Illya parked the car near the entrance to the disused trailer park and squeezed through the gap in the gates. The clock tower stood in the center of the park, its metal face mottled with rust and its only remaining hand frozen at the figure two. With a sigh, he strode towards it, checking his wristwatch as he walked: he was a couple of minutes early.

He reached the tower and stood beneath its limited shade, studying the surrounding area. There was no activity that he could see, except for a small, scruffy cat that eyed him suspiciously before trotting off. The mobile homes appeared to be unoccupied and semi-derelict, a sad reflection of the state of this clock tower. Another quick glance at his watch confirmed he had been standing there three minutes. He leaned back against the cool bricks of the tower, looking up into the cloudless sky. He hated the summer. He hated the uncomfortable heat and the flies that came with it. He swatted at an annoying insect buzzing around his head, but it seemed always to evade his swipes. Another mosquito joined the first, drawn to the warmth of his body. He waved it away, too. Then his hand flew to his neck as he felt a tiny biting sting, quietly cursing these miniature vampires and their thirst for his blood.

However, what he felt there was a tiny, needle-like dart, smaller and more unobtrusive than any he had encountered before - and Illya Kuryakin had encountered many in his tenure with the U.N.C.L.E..

He pulled it free and stared down at it, his eyes already beginning to blur. “Oh, no,” he groaned, even as his legs lost their feeling. Without their support, he slid down the wall of the clock tower. He tried to squint up at the shadow that appeared before him, but it was too much effort to resist the drug and keep his head upright.

 

He woke to the sound of jazz playing softly in the background and carefully took stock before opening his eyes.

To his consternation, he realized he was stripped naked and tied to what appeared to be, judging by his comfortable position, a bed. He shifted slightly against the gentle weight of the silk sheet that covered his lower body, grateful that his captor hadn’t left him fully exposed. He opened his eyes, but his was vision blurred and remained so, no matter how much he blinked to clear his sight.

Unable to see more than color and vague shapes, he relied on his hearing instead, turning his head as he caught a faint rustling of sound to his right. An indistinct shadow appeared and the bed dipped on one side as his captor sat next to his hip.

Illya jumped as a cold, damp cloth rubbed over his face and then was left draped over his eyes. His lashes fluttered against the cool material covering them, searching out the faint light that seeped through the soft material.

He could almost feel his kidnapper smiling down at his naked body, spread-eagled on the bed.

The familiar voice of his captor came close to his face. “I must apologize for the position you find yourself in, Mr. Kuryakin, only I found so many hidden devices about your clothing, it seemed prudent to remove them.”

The cool cloth was removed from his eyes and Illya blinked furiously, trying to see the face of the man he’d only seen masked. But the more he blinked, the more his sight seemed to cloud.

“I’m sorry about your eyes, too. I’ve put a solution in them, to relax your retinas and blur your vision. I’m sure you’ll understand my reasons for wanting to remain anonymous?”

“You could have remained anonymous if you’d mailed my wallet back to me.”

“Ah, but then we wouldn’t have had a chance to talk.”

“I didn’t come here to talk. Where’s my wallet?”

“Somewhere safe. And incidentally, I’ve deactivated your homing device, too. All your property will be returned to you when you leave. Sorry to resort to such...” he paused, and Illya felt his gaze traveling over the outline of his body, “...extreme methods, but it was necessary. And I do so value my freedom.”

“So do I,” Illya replied, rattling his restraints. He heard his captor chuckle.

“It won’t be for long.”

A promise, he hoped, that he would soon be free. That didn’t explain why this mysterious man had gone to such lengths to capture him.

“Why am I here?” Illya asked.

“To pick up your wallet.”

“Then give it to me and I’ll be on my way.

“What’s your hurry? Besides, don’t you think I deserve a reward for returning something you lost?”

“It wasn’t lost. It was stolen. By you”

“Still, you were a little careless,” his host pointed out. Illya could vaguely see him shake his head. “I would have thought U.N.C.L.E. agents were better trained.”

“I didn’t expect to get mugged at an exclusive party,” Illya replied.

The American chuckled. “Don’t they teach you to be prepared at U.N.C.L.E.?”

“You’re thinking of the boy scouts.”

“And you are certainly not one of them, are you? Boy scouts, I mean.”

Illya wasn’t sure what the man was implying, though there seemed to be some hidden meaning to his words. Through a tightly clenched jaw, Illya asked, “Are you, or are you not, going to give me back my wallet?”

“Like I said, what’s your hurry?” he replied. Illya sensed the man’s smile in the tone of his voice. “I’m not going anywhere,” his captor said. “And you certainly are not,” he added as he tugged meaningfully at Illya’s restraints.

“If you don’t intend to give me my wallet, why am I here?” lllya growled in irritation.

“I thought we could talk.”

“And you thought the only way I would listen would be to tie me up?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’re mistaken.”

“You know, I’m not in the habit of luring people to my home and tying them to my bed.”

Illya shrugged, a difficult gesture, under the circumstances. “For all I know, this may be your hobby. Perhaps, this is the way you like to spend your Friday nights.”

“I assure you, it’s not. But for you, I’m willing to make an exception.”

Illya summoned up his patience, taking a deep breath to ease his temper. “Listen, Zorro...”

His captor laughed. “Please. Call me Napoleon.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s my name.”

“That’s equally as absurd as Zorro.”

“Nevertheless, I’d prefer it if you called me Napoleon. Besides, it’s quite apt, don’t you think,” he said, sliding a finger lightly along Illya’s shoulder, making the muscle there quiver. “After all, Napoleon campaigned to conquer Russia.”

“And lost,” Kuryakin pointed out, trying to ignore the touch.

“Well, I plan better than he did,” the man replied smugly.

“And how long do you plan to keep me here?”

“Not too long. I have to be at a party tonight.”

“For pleasure or profit?” Illya asked nastily.

“This time, just for pleasure. Unlike some, I have a very busy social life.”

“Really,” Illya replied snidely. “Business must be good if you can afford to attend so many parties.”

“I make a meager living. It pays the bills and keeps me in food.”

“And silk sheets,” Illya pointed out, secretly relishing the feel of sensual softness next to his skin.

“Exactly,” Napoleon agreed. “Who says crime doesn’t pay? I’ve always found it rather lucrative, myself.”

“You’re a common thief.”

“Hey. Less of the common. I’ll have you know I had a Harvard education. Besides, I prefer to think of it as redistribution of wealth.”

“You steal from people.”

“Only from those who can afford to lose.” Illya’s captor sighed. “Look, don’t feel sorry for them, comrade, half of those jewels were paste and their owners will still claim their loss back from the insurance companies. And they’ll dine out on the experience for years.”

Illya had to admit, from reading the police reports, no one had been hurt. And oddly enough, no one had seemed shaken by the experience, especially the females on the receiving end of his attentions.

Which reminded him….“Why the kiss?” Illya asked curiously.

“A kiss is just a kiss….” Napoleon’s breath whispered against Illya’s cheek, adding to his confusion. Illya turned away from the warmth of his captor’s face and felt a sigh of disappointment zephyr across his neck. “Besides,” Napoleon went on, “it costs me little to give it away and provides some excitement to otherwise dull lives.”

“So you think I have a dull life? You’re very much mistaken.”

“Hm. Perhaps I was. Thinking back, I did notice you seemed anxious at the party. Back then I thought it was the people that made you nervous, and when I found the lock picks, I thought maybe that was the reason. But, no, it wasn’t any of those things. It was the item you had in the wallet. The item you stole from Mr. Renaud. Seems like we have something in common, after all, eh, tovarich?”

The background music stopped as the record came to the end. Illya felt his captor stand up. “Just let me turn the record over. I must say, I find your taste in music rather agreeable.”

“My taste?”

Illya heard the movement to his left as his captor flipped the disk over and carefully set the stylus to the record. A blues number played on piano softly filled the room. Napoleon was returning to sit by his side. “Don’t you recognize it?” he asked. “You should. It’s one of your albums.”

“Mine? You’ve been in my apartment?” Illya asked, aghast. The shock was hard to keep off his face. He’d always regarded his apartment as sacrosanct.

“Yes. And a cold, forbidding place it is, too. No color, no plants. Your only luxury, a record collection. Kind of sad, don’t you think?”

“It’s practical.”

“Like the rest of your life, no doubt.”

Illya was annoyed. This man didn’t know him, didn’t understand the constraints he lived under. Why should he explain? More importantly, how had this man got into his apartment? The locks and alarms set in place by the organization had been upgraded by himself, trusting only his own expertise in this area. His apartment had been his fortress, his stronghold against the world. And now it had been breached, defiled.

“How did you get in?” Illya asked, refusing to keep his anger out of his tone.

Another chuckle. “It wasn’t easy,” Napoleon replied. “I think Fort Knox would have been simpler. If a little less enlightening.” Illya felt him shift position as he leaned a little nearer than Illya was comfortable with. “Still, it was a challenge. Somewhat like yourself.”

Illya frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Your heart’s a bit like your apartment, isn’t it? Cold and unwelcoming. You like to keep it locked, too, just to make sure no one gets in. Isn’t that the truth, Illyusha?”

Illya didn’t care for this conversation, it was too personal, too perceptive, and far too close to the truth for comfort. Illya chose to divert, rather than confront. “Where did you hear that name?”

“From the Russian babushka at the Romanov bakery. She calls you Illyusha. I think it’s nice.” He leaned forward, almost nose-to-nose. “Illyusha.” He repeated the name softly, with the same reverence that a pious man whispers a prayer. Illya felt goose bumps rise all over his body.

Something suddenly occurred to the agent.

“You’ve been following me.” The bakery was one of his favorite haunts. Madame Ilyenkova’s honey cakes always reminded him of home. He recalled his visit the other day, the feeling of being tailed, but the frustration of being unable to detect anyone. It was disconcerting that this man could outfox him.

“I’ve been watching you,” Napoleon explained. “You and your friend, the fair haired one. You make quite a pair.”

“We’re partners.”

“In what?”

Illya sighed, rapidly losing patience. “In work. We work together.”

Napoleon nodded. “Closely?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just checking out the competition.”

Illya shook his head in frustration. “What competition? What are you talking about?”

“Us. We have met before, you know,” Napoleon said.

“Oh?”

“I’m offended. You don’t remember,” he stated with touch of remorse. Illya vaguely saw the man’s shoulders sketch a shrug . “Well, you were in a hurry at the time.”

“Why don’t you refresh my memory,” Illya said with a hint of sarcasm.

“The Lucky Cat Club.”

Mentally, Illya winced. The Lucky Cat was a place he visited infrequently, and only when the need arose, a haunt frequented by beats, homosexuals and the incurably curious. It was a place where kind could meet kind and, should they feel inclined, pick up some company for the night.

But even if he could see the face swimming before his eyes, Illya wouldn’t remember him. He had an excellent memory, total recall, when he chose to use it. The Lucky Cat was a place he chose to conveniently forget. His visits there were, by necessity, brief.

He would be sure not to make that mistake again.

“What’s the matter? Didn’t I pay you enough?” Illya said nastily.

“You didn’t pay me enough attention. No money was exchanged.”

“So you gave it away. That’s very generous of you.”

“Believe me, it was a pleasure. You’re not exactly a chore to look at.” Gentle fingers combed through Illya’s hair, brushing the fringe back from his forehead. “Our... liaison that night,” Napoleon continued, “was rather brief, though.” Illya heard Napoleon chuckle as a warm hand gently cupped his cheek. “And somewhat one sided, if memory serves me well.”

If Illya had ever doubted that he had met this man before, then that last statement was damning evidence. The men he chose at the club were men whose gratification came from the act of submission, not from mutual stimulation; they understood that. He allowed them to touch, but would not return their caresses. And oral sex was all he’d allow them to perform, giving him a modicum of control over the situation and lessening the risk of contracting any unfortunate and embarrassing disease. It was selfish on his part, he knew, but he believed that sharing himself intimately with someone was beyond his capabilities. If someone was willing to give, Illya was happy to take. So he took what was offered and gave nothing in return. It suited him, and it suited his occasional partners.

Is this what this man wanted now? Parity? To take from Illya something that hadn’t been on offer that night? Illya’s reliable instincts could detect no threat though, despite his naked vulnerability. So what did this man want? Illya would just have to wait for him to reveal his hand — not that he had much choice. Without his clothes and his hidden picks, he had no way of getting free.

The man’s next question caught him off guard.

“Tell me, Illyusha, do you believe in love at first sight?”

“What? Love?” Illya asked, perplexed by the question and the tingle that the man’s constant touching evoked. He pulled his face away from the warmth of his hand, uncertain where this conversation was going. Both Napoleon’s words and the physical contact were disturbing. Each touch brought a shiver, made him physically uncomfortable in a way that had nothing to do with his mental outrage.

“Mmm. Maybe it’s a word you haven’t learned, yet – or maybe it’s the concept you’re not familiar with,” Napoleon said.

“I know what the word means,” Illya protested. “I don’t understand your question.”

“What I’m trying to tell you is that I was attracted to you the moment I laid eyes on you at the Lucky Cat, and even though I’d seen you reject all those others during that night, somehow I knew I’d be the one to get your attention.”

“How modest of you.”

“Not at all. I’m a big believer in fate. I believe, for instance, that it was fate that drew us to each other at the Lucky Cat. Just as it was fate that brought us together at Renaud’s party, that last time we met. I think our meeting was destined.” There was a smile in his voice. “And who am I to argue with fate?”

“It was not fate. It was merely a random set of coincidental circumstances.”

“Fate,” Napoleon replied simply.

“It was coincidence,” Illya insisted, equally certain.

“Are you really so sure?” Napoleon moved closer to Illya’s face, so close that Illya could smell toothpaste on the warm breath sighing from between his lips. It was almost a temptation to reach up and meet those lips with his own. It would take so little effort, just an inch or two....

He shook off this ridiculously romantic notion. What had come over him? Here he lay, tied naked to a stranger’s bed; he should be afraid, he should be concerned – he should not be feeling aroused.

“No. I knew it, that night in the club….” Napoleon continued. Illya heard him sigh. “Why did you deny me that night at the club, Illyusha? Were you afraid?”

“Of what? Of you? Don’t flatter yourself.”

“No, of yourself. Are you afraid to give in to your desires? Do you think it makes you weak?”

“I have no weaknesses.” His statement, though, was interrupted by his stomach’s untimely rumble. Embarrassed by his body’s betrayal, he gritted his teeth. It had been a long time since breakfast.

“My apologies,” Napoleon said, chuckling. “It must be a while since you ate. Excuse me a moment.” Illya felt him rise and saw his indistinct form disappear.

The kitchen must have been close; Illya could hear his captor moving around as a fridge door was opened and a dish scraped on the worktop.

Moments later, Illya’s captor returned and the bed dipped on one side as the American sat by Illya’s hip.

A insistent finger tapped at his jaw. “Open your mouth,” his captor ordered. Illya shook his head. “C’mon, open up. You want something to eat, don’t you?” But Illya kept him mouth resolutely shut. “Oh, I see,”Napoleon said, amused. He moved close and whispered in Illya’s ear, “You’re worried about what I might… slide between your lips.” Illya felt him move away. “Trust me, Illyusha, you like these. I saw you eating them in a restaurant.” He pressed something cold and soft against Illya’s lips and, despite his resolve, Illya opened his mouth and allowed the soft, round fruit to be placed in his mouth. A strawberry, ripe and sweet, dipped in sugar and cream. He felt the juice run down his throat and his saliva glands react to the taste. He had to keep himself from sighing in pleasure.

He opened his mouth in anticipation of the next one, and heard Napoleon chuckle. “Just like a baby bird,” his captor said, sliding another piece of fruit into the waiting void.

Illya ate the berries until he was satisfied that his stomach had been appeased. He shook his head, refusing any more and heard the bowl being placed on the bedside table.

Napoleon’s finger brushed lightly across Illya’s lips, sweeping away the traces of sugar. “Such a nice mouth,” Napoleon sighed. “A mouth that could do more than eat ripe fruit and speak caustic words, if allowed.”

Illya wasn’t sure he liked the implication and it showed in his face.

“I was talking about kissing, Illyusha,” his captor explained, obviously reading the agent’s expression correctly. “Though there are other possibilities, of course,” Napoleon teased.

His fingers were stroking Illya’s face again, sliding down his neck, and along his exposed collarbone. The contact was gentle, soothing and oh-so arousing. It took all of Illya’s willpower to keep his mind on more serious things and prevent his blood supply from gravitating to his groin. It was a relief when Napoleon announced, “I’m afraid you’ll have to go soon. I wish you could stay longer, but--”

“I know. You have a party to attend. I understand completely. Now, if you don’t mind….” Illya said, rattling the cuffs.

“Ah, but we haven’t discussed my reward yet. For the return of your wallet?”

Illya felt his breath catch. Reward? What reward would his captor demand? Illya had a feeling it wouldn’t be money. Surely this articulate man, who had so far treated him with gentleness and a modicum of respect, didn’t intend to finish what had apparently been started at the club that night? Illya felt his pulse rate pick up. Sexual abuse was a constant threat in their business: he’d suffered such at the hands of the enemy several times. It was a constant risk and one he suffered stoically as he did any other form of torture. But this situation was somehow different. For some reason, he felt oddly at ease in this bandit’s company, and that was a puzzle he could not solve. Illya was aware that his own psyche had a dark side, one that he kept buried out of fear. It was a wild beast that he kept caged, refusing to give in to its animal urges.

Again, Napoleon seemed to recognize his fear. “Oh, Illyusha, I wouldn’t take you against your will. Besides, I’m kind of old fashioned. I believe such an intimate act should be with someone you love.” He leaned over, bathing Illya’s senses with the strong, sensual cologne. “And that isn’t me. Is it?” he said, with mock hopefulness.

Illya wasn’t sure how to respond. Was this relief or disappointment he was feeling? The two differing emotions were tangled together and Illya couldn’t separate one from the other. He shook his head, genuinely confused. “I don’t understand.”

“I know,” Napoleon replied sadly. “I know you don’t. And don’t worry. I don’t blame you, you’re a product of the system you were raised in.”

“Then what is it you want?” Illya was willing to pay whatever this man wanted. He needed to get out of here. He could feel his grip on his tightly controlled emotions beginning to slip, and it was disconcerting to say the least. No one had ever had this effect on him before. Physical torture was something he could cope with, but this man’s gentle technique was breaking down his mental barriers with worrying ease.

The fingers were back on his lips, tracing along the outline of his mouth with loving care. “Just a kiss, Illyusha. You can afford to pay that, can’t you?”

Oh, yes. That was an easy payment – or was it? Could he kiss this man and walk away unscathed? Could he allow that type of intimacy? Of course he could, he decided. He was an U.N.C.L.E. agent, first and foremost. It was just another role to play. He decided he would allow the kiss, but take no pleasure from it.

But how odd, Illya thought, the things that go through your mind at a time like this. Here he lay, spread-eagled, naked on a strange man’s bed, being coerced into an act that, for the most part, some might consider foreplay – and all he could think about was the state of his own breath.

Unconsciously, his tongue ran along his teeth and flicked out to moisten his lips, before he took a deep, steadying breath and nodded sharply, giving his consent to the kiss.

Worry fled his confused mind as he felt the softest brush of his captor’s lips against his own – sweet, chaste and disappointingly short. His disappointment was short-lived, however, as the mouth returned and a warm tongue probed gently at the space between his lips. He allowed his lips to part and almost lost control as the clean tasting flesh slipped into his mouth. Despite his prior resolve not to actively participate, he suckled on the tongue, relaxing into the kiss with complete abandon. If this was all he would have, then he would take it: it was more than he’d willingly given any man in the past. It was euphoric, this emancipation of will, this freedom to enjoy another man’s intimate touch. He would allow it because his subconscious reasoned that he could not be held accountable. He was forced, coerced, held against his will. He was not guilty of this act. He was not responsible.

But as the kiss deepened, Illya could no longer deny his own body’s responses. Somehow, he forgot the circumstances and surroundings as Napoleon’s hand brushed across his chest. He arched off the bed, his hardening cock seeking to make contact with the body above, but it was impossible, tied as he was. Inwardly, he groaned with frustration.

When the kiss ended and the American pulled away, Illya knew Napoleon’s gaze was assessing his handiwork. He flushed with embarrassment; his erection must have shown clearly through the silk sheets.

Napoleon’s hand was back on Illya’s forehead, a thumb gently soothing away the frown-lines. “Don’t be ashamed, Illyusha. It’s a perfectly natural response, and frankly, I’m flattered.” He leaned forward and quickly kissed the tempting lips of his captive. “Thank you.”

Illya was starting to regain his emotional control. He pulled together his dignity, using it as a shield. “Don’t mention it. It was a relatively small price to pay.”

Another audible sigh. “For you, perhaps.” Through the blurred veil covering his eyes, Illya saw Napoleon glance at his wrist. He guessed Napoleon was checking the time and wasn’t surprised when he announced, “It’s time for us to part, Illyusha.”

The American rose and walked over to a desk, taking something from one of the drawers. When he returned, he sat again, leaning over his captive, swiping something cold and damp over a spot on the inside of the Russian’s arm. “W.. what are you doing?” Illya asked, alarmed.

“It’s just a tranquilizer. You’ll wake with a headache, I’m afraid, but I’m sure you understand my need for anonymity,” Napoleon replied as he gently pressed the point of a needle into the flesh near the joint of the Russian’s arm. A moment later, the needle was gently withdrawn and Napoleon softly rubbed over the spot.

Illya sighed as a familiar feeling began to roll through him. It was disconcerting, this slow loss of control over his own body. He felt his senses closing down gradually, despite his attempts to hold on to consciousness, and in the vague twilight between sleep and awareness, he felt the American lean over him and whisper. “I know we’ll meet again, one day. Till then, sweet dreams, cara mio.”

 

The pounding noise seemed to emanate from the center of his skull. Illya had just decided he was getting one hell of a headache, when the thumping noise was accompanied by the sound of someone calling his name. Forcing his eyes open, he was in the process of pushing himself into a sitting position, when the lock on the door across the room splintered and Mark Slate stumbled through, his gun held out in front as he quickly scanned the room before walking over to the dazed Russian.

“Are you okay?” Slate asked with genuine concern as he re-holstered the gun. He sat on the bed by his friend, reaching out a hand to gently touch his partner’s arm.

Illya glared at him. “I would be, if you’d stop making so much damned noise.”

Slate grinned at his response. “You’re okay,” he confirmed, reassured by his friend’s sour mood. He sat on the bed by his partner as Illya pulled himself up to rest back against the headboard. The Englishman’s smile faded. “I thought we’d lost you. The homing signal disappeared not long after you left this morning and mysteriously reappeared just an hour ago.”

Kuryakin finally looked at his surroundings. “Where am I?”

“A hotel on East 63rd.”

“How did I get here?”

“Don’t you remember?”

Illya’s head shook a negative as he swung his legs off the bed and sat with his aching head in his hands. What did he remember? Being held captive, unable to see the face of the man who had ensnared him; a strange conversation that had centered mainly around himself; the musky smell of Napoleon’s cologne; the feel of his lips in a searing kiss. The prick of a needle and a whispered goodbye.

And the promise to return his wallet.

Slate almost jumped as Illya’s sat bolt upright, his hands rapidly searching through his pockets. He found what he was looking for in the inside pocket of his jacket: his wallet. He withdrew it with a sigh of relief, flipped it open and found the small strip of microfilm, just where he’d left it.

“You got it,” Slate said, stating the obvious. “Hey, maybe you shouldn’t touch the wallet too much, the lab boys might be able to lift some finger prints off it. It might give us a clue to who this Kissing Bandit is.”

“There are no prints.” Illya knew this as surely as he knew his own blood type. Napoleon was too clever, resourceful and astute, he would never do anything so crass. “Besides,” he added, feeling strangely defensive of his former captor, “it is no longer our concern. It is a police matter now.”

Slate shrugged. “I guess you’re right. Anyway, it means less paperwork for us,” he replied brightly. He stood, sliding his gun back into his shoulder holster. “C’mon, let’s get back to headquarters before the old man sends out a search party.”

 

_Six weeks later_

Illya Kuryakin had to wonder why a country as seemingly rich as America had to rely so much on charity. At least, that was the supposed reason for the function he was currently attending, though Illya knew it to be a sham.

He turned to survey the gathering of people that threatened to trap him on all sides. It was a form of claustrophobia, this dislike of being surrounded. It was an unpleasant echo from his past, a remnant from his childhood, though he didn’t recognize it as such. All he knew was that the press of people made him nauseous and uncomfortable. It was an unpleasant sensation and one he’d fought against all his life.

It sometimes seemed to Illya that he drew the short straw every time an assignment requiring attendance at such gatherings came along. Perhaps Mr. Waverly knew of his phobia and was attempting to cure his agent of his aversion. He wouldn’t put it past the devious old man.

He tried to put the party-goers out of his mind and concentrate on his reasons for being at the palatial home of Joseph King. This function was supposedly in aid of a charitable organization and was by invite only. It wasn’t too hard for someone in the spy business to obtain an invitation and blend effortlessly into the crowd amassed here.

Illya recognized some of the faces here tonight: politicians, businessmen and film stars. Invitation was dependent on bank balance only. For the attendees, there was an opportunity to raise their public status by being seen to contribute to a worthy cause. For Joseph King, it was an opportunity to swell the coffers for the organization he worked for – Thrush.

Like U.N.C.L.E., Thrush didn’t publicly advertise their existence – unless it was in the guise of one of their money-making ventures, such as this bogus charity. Illya didn’t doubt that a small portion of the money went towards a charitable cause in order to divert suspicion, should the Trust find itself under investigation, but the lion’s share would go towards supporting the Thrush organization’s villainous schemes and plots.

Joseph King was an arrogant man. Even without the evidence against him, King did little to hide his association with the organization and it showed in his warped sense of humor. Illya looked at the banner hanging over the buffet table.

 

 

 

_The Joseph King Trust:_ _**T** endering **H** elp& **R** elief for the **U** nfortunate & **S** helter for the **H** omeless._

Only someone in Illya’s occupation could truly appreciate the black humor. King had obviously taken some time in considering a suitable slogan for the Thrush acronym. It reeked of overconfidence and disdain.

Illya decided he needed a drink and snagged a glass from a passing waiter’s tray as he tried to squeeze his way through to the edge of the throng. He found a space in the corner and took shelter between a large potted plant and an antique chiffonier.

He took a sip from the glass in his hand and winced. Too sickly and effervescent. What he wouldn’t give for the sharp bite of an ice-cold vodka, right now. He sidled up to the large, glossy Ficus plant to his right and tipped the contents of the glass into the pot. He glanced to one side, guiltily wondering what to do with the empty evidence in his hand, and jumped as a voice, too close and all too familiar, whispered in his ear, “I think you’ll find they thrive much better on water.”

Illya froze, the shock of recognition rendering him momentarily speechless. The words sent a shiver down his spine that terminated at his groin, as his memory replayed the last time he’d heard that rich voice. It was the voice of his kidnapper, Napoleon, as firmly imprinted on his memory as Illya’s own name.

He was almost afraid to turn around, afraid to see the face that belonged to that voice, afraid that fantasy wouldn’t match reality. His heart beat rapidly as he slowly rotated on the spot until he was face to face with the man.

He wasn’t disappointed. Napoleon’s face almost matched the one that Illya’s imagination had conjured up. It was a handsome face with sleek dark hair and mischievous brown eyes – and a mouth he was familiar with by touch only. Napoleon was smiling at him, his lips curving gently, his gaze so intent that the agent felt compelled to look away.

The eyes speak volumes... Where had he heard that expression? He couldn’t remember, but nevertheless, it was true. Napoleon’s eyes were telling him things that the American didn’t need to vocalize: surprise, delight. Desire.

The man before him, the man who had kept him captive and given him possibly the most memorable kiss of his life, took his hand in a firm grip, shaking it confidently as though they were old friends who’d just bumped into each other. “Illya, old boy. What a nice surprise. It’s good to see you again,” he said, rather loudly.

“Yes. What a pleasure. Napoleon.” Illya said the American’s name woodenly, though he tried to keep his voice neutral for the benefit of those who might overhear.

“No, I believe the pleasure’s all mine,” Napoleon said quietly.

Illya glanced about to be sure they were not being watched before tugging at Napoleon’s sleeve, leading him further into the corner away from the guests. Out of earshot, he hissed at the American, “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing. You could have knocked me over with a ten-dollar bill when I saw you come through the door.” He glanced about at their revelry surrounding them. “I think this is what they refer to as déjà vu. Though, ah, I think I prefer you in the Cossack outfit.” He looked affectionately at the blond with eyes that dared to travel over every contour of his body, unafraid of their surroundings. “I meant what I said, though. It is good to see you.”

Illya’s eyes narrowed in barely suppressed anger, refusing to give in to this man’s charm. “I shall ask you again, what are you doing here?”

Solo rubbed at his chin. “You may not believe this, but I’m here by invite. As a contributor.”

“Contributing what, exactly?”

Napoleon gave him a wry smile. “Why, money, of course. It’s a worthy cause, don’t you think, providing shelter and care for those less fortunate than ourselves.”

Illya sniffed disdainfully. “So, now you are stealing from the rich to give to the poor? I have news for you – it has already been done.”

“But I do it with finesse.”

‘And someone else’s money,” lllya pointed out.

“Well, the rich have so much, when the poor have so little. It’s nice to think that I can help.”

“And still make a profit.”

“Call it a finder’s fee.”

“Where do your benefactors think you get the money?”

“Shares,” Solo replied simply.

“I see,” Illya replied with a nod of understanding. “It’s their money, but you take a share?”

“Something like that,” Solo replied, his mouth creasing into a slight smile. Such a nice mouth, Illya thought. A mouth that could do more than smile and kiss, if Napoleon’s boast about that night at the club was anything to go by.

Now, those eyes were gazing at him, warm and affectionate as they drank him in. It had a strange effect on Illya, mesmerizing him, relegating the noise of the crowd around them to a distant murmur at the edge of his awareness, until it seemed they were the only two in the room. It was an effort to turn away, but he managed it somehow. Flustered, he went on the defensive. “Wasn’t it a little foolish to reveal your identity to me this way? After all, you said you valued your freedom.”

“That’s true,” Napoleon agreed. “However, I consider some things to be worth the risk. I thought we might come to a mutual agreement.”

“Mutual agreement?”

“Yes. You agree to keep my little secret and I’ll agree to keep yours.”

Napoleon was talking about Illya’s little excursions to the Lucky Cat club. Illya didn’t like to give in to blackmail, but when he considered what he would lose, it was a small price to pay. Besides, Napoleon wasn’t a danger to anyone; he was just a simple thief.

_Simple?_ he thought to himself. He sincerely doubted that.

Illya raised his chin with as much dignity as he could muster. “It would seem you leave me no choice.”

“That’s agreed then,” Napoleon said amiably. He glanced quickly around. “So tell me, what’s U.N.C.L.E.’s interest in the King trust?”

“Not so much the trust, more about Joseph King himself.”

“Oh?” Napoleon looked across at Joseph King, who was talking to a senator’s wife, a supercilious smile on his face.

“Mr. King is a member of a criminal organization known as Thrush,” Illya explained. “Its aim is world domination.”

Napoleon’s gaze swung back towards Illya. He gave a low whistle. “Ambitious.”

“Very. And while he tries to gain favor with the rich and famous, he plots to use their wealth and contacts to further his own nefarious dealings. Whilst maintaining his own decadent lifestyle, of course,” Illya said with distaste, looking around the sumptuously furnished room.

Napoleon frowned. “So, you’re telling me the money isn’t going where it’s supposed to go?” Illya nodded in confirmation. “And nobody suspects?” Napoleon asked.

“Did you? People are happy to give money to something they perceive as a worthy cause, perhaps for tax purposes or maybe as a salve to their conscience,” he answered pointedly. “Few care how the money is being utilized as long as their integrity remains intact.”

Napoleon regarded the agent as he talked, watching as the man’s eyes constantly surveyed the surrounding crowd, seldom allowing himself the luxury of relaxing. Napoleon wondered what his life must be like. A man always on his guard, always suspicious, must be very lonely indeed. “What can I do to help?” he found himself saying.

Illya looked at him in surprise. One corner of his mouth twitched in amusement. “You can stay here. This is my responsibility.” He placed his empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter and started to leave. Napoleon caught him by the elbow. “Wait. This is my responsibility, too. If what you say is true, I’ve been inadvertently funding a criminal.”

Illya grinned. “Ironic, isn’t it? It would appear there is no such thing as honor among thieves after all. Even so, that doesn’t make you accountable. I cannot allow you to endanger yourself.”

“But it’s okay for you to endanger your own life?”

“It’s what they pay me for.” Illya pulled out of Napoleon’s grasp, his tone softening. “Look, I know you wish to help, but this is my assignment: find evidence regarding King’s illicit activities and return to headquarters. Once we have the proof to discredit his ‘charitable trust,’ then his organization will no longer support him.”

“Where are you going to find that evidence?”

“Where all men of his ilk keep their secrets. Locked away in what he perceives as a safe place.”

“And that would be….?”

Illya shrugged. “A safe. Of course.”

“Of course,” Napoleon said with a smile. He tapped the agent on the shoulder. “And this is your lucky day. It just so happens, you’re talking to one of the county’s finest safe crackers.”

“As, coincidentally, are you,” Illya informed him smugly.

“Why am I not surprised?” Napoleon smiled as his hand dared to reach out and stroke along Illya’s waist. The Russian flinched at the audacious contact, but didn’t pull away as he raised a questioning eyebrow at the American.

Napoleon grinned. “Just checking to see if you have your tools with you.”

“I do. So please, stay here,” lllya ordered. “I should not be too long.”

“Okay. In the meantime, is there anything I can do?”

“Yes. Keep your eyes on Mr. King. I’ll collect what I need and re-join you in, say,” he glanced at his watch, “in one hour.”

Napoleon nodded and watched with concern as his companion disappeared into the crowd.

 

Victor Marton was deep in conversation with a tall and elegantly dressed Italian Countess, when his eye was caught by the two men standing in the corner of the crowded function room. The taller of the two, Napoleon Solo, was a man he knew by reputation only. The blond in his company.... now he looked more familiar: overlong fair hair, square jaw, eyes that regarded everyone and everything around him with suspicion. Yes, he had seen that face before, somewhere. And Victor Marton should remember; he had an excellent memory.

He returned his attention back to the woman in front of him, gracing her with his most charming smile. She was telling him about her recent yachting holiday in the Caribbean. He politely smiled and nodded in all the right places, whilst his mind sieved through his mental files, searching for a name to go with the face. His eyes flickered back over to the two guests, their heads close together as they talked, before being drawn back to his companion by her inane chatter.

“...and then poor Juliano got the most awful stomach cramps and I...”

Marton smiled brief encouragement at the Countess, before returning his gaze back to the strangers. The blond was shaking his head, an intense look on his face. It was a memorable face. Where had he seen it before?

“….and Guido said it was probably the lobster, so...”

“I’m sorry, my dear.” Marton said, interrupting her gently, “would you excuse me a moment? I’ve just spotted an old friend of mine I haven’t seen for a long time.” He smiled apologetically and moved away, searching for his host, Joseph King. It took a while; King was slight and mediocre in appearance. He blended in efficiently amongst the numerous people here. The back of one man in a dinner jacket looked pretty much like another. It was sheer good luck that he managed to bump into him.

“Joseph,” he said quietly in the man’s ear. “If I might have a quiet word in private?”

King nodded and followed Marton to a less crowded area, waiting patiently for the Frenchman to speak. In truth, he disliked the man immensely, but it suited his purpose to court his goodwill.

“It would seem,” Marton said. “That you have an U.N.C.L.E. agent on your guest list. Perhaps, even two.”

“U.N.C.L.E.? Are you sure? What do they want?”

Marton stroked his moustache, smoothing down the hairs. “Well, it could be that they are interested in donating some of their hard-earned income to your charitable cause. However, might I suggest that their interests are more personal? This party has given them access to your home, my friend, and therefore, to your private papers.”

King gestured to one of his men. Marton was right; it wouldn’t hurt to put a guard on his safe where his most damning evidence was kept.

 

The study was dark and quiet and a blissful relief for the agent after the crush and hubbub of the party downstairs. Illya had just managed to tumble the last lock on the wall safe when he heard a noise at the door. He ducked behind the scant cover of an armoire and watched from behind as the door opened briefly and a figure slipped into the dark room. Illya held his breath and prayed the lights wouldn’t be switched on and give him away.

“Illya?”a familiar voice whispered loudly.

_Napoleon! Damn him_! Illya left the cover of the antique dresser and strode across to the figure he could just make out in the gloom. “What are you doing here?” Illya hissed.

“I thought you could use some help. Besides, Mr. King seems to have disappeared from the party and I thought there might be trouble.”

Illya returned to the safe and pulled open the door. He glanced over his shoulder. “I’m almost done here. Go back to the party,” Illya said, effectively dismissing him.

Napoleon was suddenly at his back, his musky cologne arousing Illya’s senses like an opiate.

“But it’s lonely there without you,” Napoleon said silkily. His hand went to Illya’s shoulder, stroking the muscles there in sensual circles. “Besides, it’s nice and peaceful in here. We’re alone, the lights are dimmed and there’s soft music playing in the background,” he purred, referring to the band that could be heard throughout the house. “We have this place to ourselves. I thought we might continue where we left off.”

The U.N.C.L.E. agent pulled out a blue notebook from the interior of the safe and shook off the distracting hand. He tucked the book inside his jacket and closed the safe door before turning towards the American.

“You have no idea who you’ re dealing with here, do you?” Illya said in exasperation.

The American took a step back and smiled annoyingly. “Why don’t you enlighten me?”

“Thrush is an organization which will employ any means to gain power. _Any_ means. Bribery, blackmail, coercion and most definitely murder. Joseph King is an employee. He lives by their creed. He is corrupt and ruthless, like the organization for which he works.” Illya pushed past, his eyes blazing with anger. “And you wish to take the time to... to... make out!”

Napoleon winced. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make light of the situation.” He stepped further away, giving the agent the space he knew he needed. “Still, if the circumstances are so grave, why are you here alone? Shouldn’t you have some back up?”

“I have back up, should I need it,” he retorted. “I came here to retrieve a book. A simple assignment. Or at least it should have been.”

Napoleon pursed his lips. “Have I complicated things?”

Illya sighed, his shoulders slumped. “Not intentionally. It’s just that... I could do without the distraction.”

Napoleon smiled and took a step back into Illya’s personal space. “Am I? Distracting, I mean.”

“Yes,” Illya replied, stepping away and moving towards the door. “But not in the way you think. Don’t delude yourself.”

Illya opened the door a crack. The hallway was clear. He gestured to Solo. “Go back downstairs. If you take my advice, you will make your excuses and leave.”

“I’ll wait for you.”

“No! Just leave. You must not get involved.”

Napoleon recognized this was not the time to argue the point. He slipped out the door and headed down the wide staircase, back into the hub of the party. Despite what Illya had said, Napoleon was not about to abandon him. Whether he liked it or not, Napoleon was involved; it was inevitable, it was fate, and Napoleon was a big believer in fate. They would leave here together or not at all.

 

Napoleon tried not to pace as he waited. He was anxious, he was edgy. What was taking Illya so long? He made an effort to look as though he were having a good time, smiling politely at an elegant brunette who caught his eye as she passed by. But she wasn’t the one he was interested in. Another female, dusky and willowy, smiled coyly at him over the rim of her glass and Napoleon smiled back, while keeping a covert eye on the top of the staircase.

Despite the strong temptation of the beauties surrounding him, Napoleon’s mind was firmly on another heavenly body. Illya lacked charm, that was for sure, but what he lacked in manners he made up for in looks and wit. But that wasn’t the extent of the attraction, Napoleon had to admit to himself. There was a connection between them, an instant magnetism that had been difficult for Napoleon to resist. Regardless of the Russian’s protests, Napoleon still believed their meeting was preordained.

He smiled at another passing beauty before glancing up at the staircase. Where was that damned Russian? In truth, it had probably only been a minute or two, but it felt much longer. Impatient, Napoleon decided to make his way back upstairs, but as he neared the bottom step, Illya appeared, walking calmly towards the top of the staircase. Napoleon watched with anticipation as Illya took the first tread down, feeling relief flow over him, but his ease was short lived as he saw the blond stiffen and pause, then take a step backwards, and then another. Napoleon searched about the sea of heads, looking to see what it was that had spooked the agent.

There, making his way across to the staircase, was Joseph King, side by side with a tall and elegant looking moustachioed man. They were trailed by two of the meanest looking heavies Napoleon had ever seen. He was sure they hadn’t spotted Illya yet, their attention on the surrounding crowd. Napoleon kept his fingers crossed as Illya furtively retraced his steps back towards the hallway.

 

Joseph King and his entourage made their way up the stairs. When he reached the top, King turned right and swept quickly into the study, closing the door on himself and his little group.

King strode across to the wall safe and rapidly spun the tumbler, found the numbers and pulled on the handle. The safe door swung open and he searched frantically through the items stowed there, shoving aside bundled currency and smaller notebooks.

“Dammit!” he cursed loudly. It was worse than he’d imagined. The U.N.C.L.E. agent had already been here – the accounts book was missing. If it got into U.N.C.L.E. hands, King would be finished as far as Thrush was concerned. King’s clenched fist thumped into the wall. He’d be damned if he’d end up in the East River as food for the crabs.

“Vinnie, start searching the rooms and put men outside in case that U.N.C.L.E. agent tries to leave.”

 

Illya stuck his head out of his hiding place as the door to the study closed behind King and his men. He had to move quickly; it wouldn’t be long before King discovered the missing book. He tread quietly along the hallway to the staircase. Napoleon was waiting anxiously for him at the bottom, his face relaxing visibly when he saw Illya gracefully descend the stairs.

“Are you okay?” Napoleon asked as soon as the agent joined him.

“I’m fine. I thought I told you to leave?” Illya replied in admonishment as he glanced about, unsure who was friend and who was foe amongst the sea of faces.

“I thought you might need some help.”

“As you can see, I did not.” Illya began moving through the crowd towards the door and defiantly, Napoleon followed behind.

Illya stopped and turned towards him. “I think I may have been recognized. The man with King is another Thrush agent, Victor Marton. We have met briefly. It is possible he may remember me, so we should not be seen together. It could cost you your life.”

“I’m not leaving you to fend for yourself,” Napoleon insisted.

“You must! This is none of your concern.”

A movement at the top of the stairs caught Illya’s attention and he looked up. King was there with his men – and Victor Marton was pointing in their direction.

“It would seem the point is moot. Mr. King and his associate have seen us together. Let’s get out of here. I need to call for help,” he said.

They made it as far as the foyer, but as they walked towards the door, two beefy looking men appeared in the entrance. Illya paused and backed up, searching around for another escape route. Napoleon tapped his elbow and Illya followed the direction he indicated with a short nod of his head: a corridor to the left, leading to the kitchens. By silent agreement they began to walk casually towards it, passing several party guests meandering around. Their pursuers followed, matching them step for step.

Illya shut the kitchen door behind them, ignoring the stares of the workers busy attending to the food preparations. Napoleon was already walking over to the door at the other end of the room and lllya followed close behind, one hand reaching into his pocket and extracting his communicator.

Before Napoleon had a chance to grasp the door’s handle, it turned and the door pushed open. Napoleon was face to face with Joseph King. He backed up, forcing Illya to do the same as King and two of his men came into the kitchen.

Illya turned in time to see Marton and another of King’s men come through the same door they had, effectively trapping them in a pincer movement. Illya glanced about, dropping the communicator into a boiling cauldron of soup on the stove as he passed. He was due to check in an hour from now. If he didn’t, someone would try to call. With luck, the device’s demise would alert someone at headquarters that he was in trouble.

“I hope you know how to fight, Napoleon.”

“I get by,” he replied modestly as he took up a defensive stance at the Russian’s back. Like a carousel, both men turned, trying to keep their opponents in view.

Fighting wasn’t an option. Marton and King had both drawn weapons. The kitchen staff backed away as King said, “Don’t be alarmed. These men are intruders.”

Marton walked forward, standing before Napoleon, watery gray eyes studying his face intently. “You, I’ve never met before,” he declared, dismissing the American before moving over to the Russian. “But you,” he said, nodding, eyes narrowing on the pale features. “Yes, I remember you. You were the spy we found working in our laboratory in Versailles. You disappeared with our new truth serum. The quiet, inoffensive little lab boy. I see I was mistaken in my assessment of you. Not so shy and retiring as you appeared.”

“Nor a boy,” Kuryakin reasonably pointed out.

“Hm, an U.N.C.L.E. lackey.”

“Two little U.N.C.L.E. lackeys. Thrush Central will be pleased,” King chuckled.

“This man isn’t with U.N.C.L.E.,” Illya informed them.

Marton laughed. “Come now, I saw you talking together in the ball room.”

“I’ve never seen him before tonight. He isn’t with me,” Illya insisted. Despite his annoying propensity to disobey Illya’s directives, Napoleon was an innocent in this affair.

“Well, he’s with you now,” King pointed out. He glanced at one of his men. “Search them. Start with this one,” King said, nodding towards lllya.

Illya endured the rough handling, holding still while hard hands roamed intimately over every inch of his body. The brute’s search finally terminated and the man turned to his boss, shaking his head.

King huffed impatiently “Where is the book?” King asked the agent.

“What book?”

“My accounts book. The book you stole from my safe.”

“Oh, that book. I lost it.”

Whack! The backhanded slap took Illya by surprise, leaving him dizzy for a second. He shook his head, trying to clear it. To his left, Napoleon was struggling against the other thug’s hold, his face a mask of anger, his eyes showing his concern for the agent. Illya shook his head at him, trying to convey a message. Not now. Not here. They were at a disadvantage at the moment: too many opponents, too little space. An opportunity would present itself, Illya was certain, and when it did, he would be ready to make his move. What he didn’t need now, though, was a dead hero on his conscience. He sought out Napoleon’s gaze and shook his head. Napoleon seemed to read his message and stopped his struggle while he was given the same rough search, which produced the same negative result.

King pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head in frustration. “Never mind. We’ll attend to them later, after everyone leaves. Search them for weapons and put them down in the cellar for now. The book won’t be going anywhere and neither are these two. In the meantime, I have guests to attend to and contributions to collect.” His smile oozed menace as turned to his two captives. “Gentlemen, we’ll talk later.”

 

The cellar room they’d been locked in was in a better state than many Illya had been imprisoned in. It was large and bare, with only one door and a small, barred window set high in the wall at ground level. Years of damp had stained the walls with black mould. Illya ran a hand over the slick, damp surface as he looked up at the window.

Meanwhile, Napoleon was studying the door’s lock. “This is a relatively simple mechanism. If we can find something to use as a pick, I think I can open it.”

“That’s fine,” Illya replied, still studying the high-set window. “Except, we don’t know what’s on the other side and we may walk out only to be greeted by the muzzle of a Mauser. King is sure to have posted at least one of his men as a guard, Napoleon.” Illya paused, glancing at the American. “Napoleon...” he repeated the name, a thoughtful tone to his voice. “Is that your real name?

Napoleon lost his interest and enthusiasm for the door and looked up at Illya. “Yes. Napoleon Solo, at your service,” he said with a courtly bow.

Illya’s attention went back to the window as he continued to speak. “What sort of person names their child after a despot?”

Napoleon didn’t appear upset by the rude question – he’d probably heard it a thousand times. Instead, he just chuckled at Illya’s boldness. “Actually, I was named after my grandfather. He’s the one who was named after a despot.” He followed Illya’s gaze towards the window. “What are you thinking?” Napoleon asked.

Illya shrugged. “Just that it may be a possible way out. I can’t tell from here.” He stepped away from the wall, his hand waving for Solo to come closer. “Give me a boost up.”

Napoleon laced his fingers and braced his legs as Illya planted a foot firmly on the makeshift step and with Napoleon’s help, launched himself up to the window. He gripped the bars and shifted his feet to balance on Solo’s shoulders. Napoleon looked up, but all he could see was an interesting view of the Russian’s crotch. He forced his hands to remain on the agent’s ankles, holding him in place.

“No, these are too firmly in place. The bars are solid, and this shirt doesn’t have exploding buttons.”

“Exploding buttons?”Napoleon repeated, puzzled.

Illya ignored him. “We must look for other possibilities.” He glanced down at his support. “You can let me down now.”

Napoleon took a firm hold of Illya’s legs and lowered him slowly, his arms wrapped about the lightweight body as it slid down against his own until Illya was back on the floor. Illya turned, still cradled in the circle of Napoleon’s arms, still caught against the bold American in a tight embrace. He felt cocooned, safe, enticed by the security offered within this strong, encompassing hold.

And though his mind said ‘ _no_ ,’ Illya’s body responded as though it were a separate entity. He felt his willpower dissolve when Solo leaned closer and pressed a kiss to his lips. Illya’s eyes drifted closed and his lips parted, allowing access to the invading tongue, while his hands clutched at the fabric of Solo’s shirt as though he needed to support his weak knees.

It was only as he felt Napoleon’s mouth curve into a confident smile, felt the knowing stroke of bold hands against his hips that he was pulled back into the reality of their situation.

This was not the time or the place. And definitely not the man he should be doing this with. Solo was brash, overconfident, too self-assured and more to the point, a thief with a Robin Hood complex.

Illya snapped his reason back into place, pulled away from the kiss, drew back his fist and aimed it unerringly at Napoleon’s chin. It connected hard enough to knock Napoleon off balance and onto his backside. It gave Illya small satisfaction to see the stunned look on the American’s face, as Napoleon looked up at him.

Napoleon rubbed at his sore chin. “You hit me,” Solo accused, stating the obvious.

“You kissed me!” the blond tossed back.

“You kissed me back.”

There was no denying that. “I was merely being polite,” lllya responded inarticulately.

“It isn’t polite to hit someone!”

Illya took a step towards him. “Look, there’s a time and a place for everything and two a.m., trapped in a dark, dank cellar with our lives under threat isn’t it!” he snarled back.

Illya was stumped when Solo’s face slowly faded from puzzled annoyance to a warm, affectionate smile. “Well, why didn’t you say, Illyusha? You name the time and I’ll find us the place.” He grinned up at the agent, his bruised chin all but forgotten.

Illya shook his head, perplexed. “You’re insufferable, do you know that?”

Napoleon pushed himself upright. “No, I’m just determined – once I know what I want.” Fastidiously, he brushed down his pants. “Once you know what you want, be sure to let me know.”

“What I want is to get out of here. But for now, it seems we must wait until either King returns or help arrives.” He hoped it would be the latter. In the meantime, he may as well save his energy – he might need it. Illya lowered himself to the floor and settled his back against the cool wall. Napoleon copied his actions, sitting as near as he dared to the man who had inadvertently drawn him into this situation. But perhaps that was unfair, he thought. If he hadn’t pursued Illya, if he had taken his advice and left, he wouldn’t be where he was now – sitting next to a man who had beguiled him from the moment they had met. Napoleon sighed happily. He still believed it was fate.

He glanced at the profile of his companion and Illya looked his way, a small smile on his handsome face.

Napoleon smiled back. Well, maybe things weren’t so bad after all, Napoleon thought.

 

Illya knew it wouldn’t be long before King and his retinue returned. The party had obviously come to an end, judging by the number of cars they could hear starting up and departing down the gravel drive. Illya watched in frustration as their headlights flashed through the basement window as they passed; so near, yet so annoyingly far away.

It was soon after the last car was heard driving away that the door to their accommodation was swung open and King and three of his men strode in. Illya and Napoleon rose from their positions on the floor to meet them.

Without preamble, King walked up to face the U.N.C.L.E. agent. “Now. Where were we? Oh, yes.” His hand lashed out, hitting Illya across the cheek with such force he fell backwards. Napoleon caught him, preventing him from falling, and was about to retaliate when one of the men shoved a rifle barrel into his midriff. The guard with the rifle prodded him hard in a series of jabs, forcing him back into a corner, while the other two goons grabbed hold of Illya, holding him upright by his arms. King stepped forward, drew back his fist and jabbed a punishing blow into Illya’s stomach. The agent tried to double over, but the strong arms holding him up refused to allow him such comfort.

King grabbed a fistful of blond hair and pulled Illya’s head up so their eyes could meet. “Now, where is my book?”

Illya returned his stare defiantly, refusing to answer. More punishment would follow – it was inevitable. Mentally, he readied himself for the punishment. True to Thrush form, King let loose a steady string of body blows, pummelling Illya several times before his own lack of energy forced him to stop.

After the first blow, Napoleon had tried to step forward, but the rifle pushed him back each time. His shouted pleas for King to stop were ignored. King’s violent temper blocked out all outside interference until his head began to ache. He stopped, breathless, to look at his handiwork. Kuryakin, his face bruised and bloodied, was still conscious. Stubborn little bastard.

King finally turned his attention to Solo, leaving Illya hanging between the two thugs. “Where’s my book?”

Napoleon looked with concern at the blond. “Let him go and I’ll tell you where it is.”

“Tell me where it is and I may let him go.”

Napoleon hesitated, so King walked back to the U.N.C.L.E. agent and grabbed a handful of his hair as his free hand drew back to throw another punch.

“Alright, alright!” Napoleon shouted. “Just don’t hurt him anymore.”

King released his hold and walked back to face Solo. “Well? I’m waiting.”

Napoleon looked across at the bruised face of the Russian and sighed. “It’s in the Steinway.”

“The piano?” King smiled. “See, that wasn’t so bad. Now, if you’d told me this in the first place, we could have saved ourselves all this unpleasantness.” King turned towards the door. “We’re going to check this out. It shouldn’t take too long. You,” he said, pointing at the man with the rifle, “stay here and keep an eye on them. We’ll be back in a couple of minutes.” He looked at Napoleon. “If the book isn’t there, it’s your turn next.”

The thugs dropped their burden to the floor and left, following their boss through the door. Napoleon immediately went to Illya’s side, helping him into a sitting position. “Are you all right?” he asked, brushing back strands of fair hair from the high forehead. He was shocked when Illya looked at him, smiled and winked.

“Fine,” the Russian whispered. Illya was used to physical abuse. If you let your body relax, the damage could be minimized. “We don’t have much time. We need to get out of here.” Napoleon saw him glance meaningfully at their armed guard before returning his gaze to Napoleon. “Help me up,” Illya said quietly.

Napoleon pulled him upright, but as he did, Illya twisted his arm free. “Let go of me, you blockhead,” he snarled nastily.

Napoleon paused a moment in surprise, studying Illya’s face. A message passed between them, though no words were exchanged. It was uncanny, the way he seemed able to read Illya’s thoughts. _Okay_....

Napoleon’s lips twisted in a sneer. “Who’s the blockhead who got us into this in the first place?”

“If you’d listened to me...” Illya started angrily.

“Listen to you? I’ve done nothing but since I met you... _Let’s go out the back_ ,” Solo mimicked in a whiney voice. “You’re marvelous, you know that? Is that what they teach you in spy school?”

“It was your clumsy feet. If you hadn’t tripped...!”

“Tripped?

“Yes, tripped! You know what I think?” the Russian asked, his voice raising an octave.

“Oh, you can think,” Solo said sarcastically. “That has to be a first!”

“If you hadn’t been so clumsy...”

“If you hadn’t been so pig-headed...”

Kuryakin dived at him, pushing him back against the wall as the pair grappled.

Unsure what to do, their guard moved closer. “Hey! Knock it off, you two.” His command went unheeded in the heat of battle, as the two combatants continued to wrestle.

The guard moved nearer, reaching out with his free hand to grab hold of the Russian’s collar. “I said break it up!” Suddenly, the blond spun, taking hold of the rifle barrel and pushing it up towards the ceiling. At the same time, Solo grabbed for the man’s knees, yanking him off his feet. Kuryakin shifted his grip, wrapping an arm around the guard’s head and twisting it quickly to one side. There was a sickening crack and the guard went limp.

Napoleon stood panting for breath. “Did you have to hit me so hard?”

“I had to make it look convincing.”

“Well, I’m convinced,” Napoleon replied as he rubbed at his chin

“Quick,” Illya said urgently, slinging the guard’s rifle over his shoulder. “We must go. King and the others will be on their way back. By now they will have discovered you weren’t telling the truth.”

They fled up the basement stairs to the ground floor and found themselves not far from the rear tradesman’s entrance. Napoleon turned right towards the door, but Illya started to move left. Napoleon grabbed his sleeve, halting the agent’s progress. “Wait! The exit’s this way.”

“But the library is this way,” Illya replied, pointing skyward.

Napoleon frowned. “Library?”

Illya’s brilliant smile lit up his face. “Where else would you hide a book?”

Napoleon followed behind as lllya quickly took the stairs up to the first floor. He went directly to the library and both men slipped inside.

Inside the large room, every available inch of wall space was taken up by books. Napoleon whistled low in appreciation as he saw and recognized several valuable tomes. He tore his gaze away and watched as Illya went directly over to a set of red bound books and pulled one out of the row. Napoleon came to stand by Illya’s side and smiled in admiration at the Russian’s initiative. He had removed the pages from the inside of a book and hidden the stolen book inside the empty binding. “Smart Russian,” he said, squeezing Illya’s arm. Illya gave him a blindingly sweet smile in return and Napoleon found himself once more mesmerized by his stunning beauty.

Frozen in place, unaware of their surroundings, both men stared at each other, unable to break eye contact. This time, it was Illya who leaned forward and kissed Napoleon on the lips. Completely disarmed, Napoleon returned the kiss, sliding an arm around the slender waist and pulling Illya closer.

The romantic bubble burst as loud, angry voices called out downstairs. The two men pulled apart and went to the door. Together, they took hold of a nearby, heavy oak chair and jammed it under the door handle, effectively sealing the entrance.

“That will buy us some time,” Illya said. “They will search the rooms downstairs first.”

Napoleon was looking out of the window, watching some of King’s men wandering about down below. He opened the window and stuck his head out, searching for an escape route. There, just to one side, a solid-looking drainpipe that would give them access to the roof. He turned to the agent. “There is one option.”

Illya raised an eyebrow in question.

“Up!” Napoleon suggested, hitching a thumb towards the ceiling. “At least we can defend ourselves better from a higher position.”

Illya agreed, for lack of any other choices. He was sure by now that U.N.C.L.E. would realize something was wrong and help would be on its way – if they could just hold out until then.

Napoleon was already climbing onto the sill, swinging out, a tight grip on the cast-iron pipe. Illya waited until he’d ascended a few feet before clambering out behind him, the Thrush rifle slung over one shoulder.

Heights had never been a problem for Illya Kuryakin – he’d faced much scarier things in his action-packed existence. He was a natural when it came to flying a plane, and abseiling down the face of a six-story building was a piece of cake. With the same confidence, he climbed the drainpipe with the ease and grace of a spider monkey, swinging one hand over the other, as he made his way slowly to the top.

Napoleon was already hefting himself over the gutter onto the surface of the flat roof. It was a relief when he finally made it and had his feet back on terra firma. He looked around the flat rooftop at the smoking chimneys stacks, keeping one eye on the door that would lead into the house, while the other watched the progress of his comrade.

Illya had almost made it. He had hooked an arm over the top when a bullet zinged into the brickwork inches from his head. He flinched away from the flying fragments, but a second shot hit its mark, slamming into the agent’s upper arm and loosening his grip.

“Illya!” Napoleon shouted as the blond head disappeared from view. He ran to the edge of the building, certain he would see the blond’s body sprawled along the concrete path below. Instead, he was just in time to see the Thrush rifle that Illya had been carrying smash to pieces as it hit the ground. Blessedly, the agent was still there, hanging onto the pipe by his good arm, frozen in place as his injury rendered him inert.

“Hold on!” Napoleon ordered.

“I thought I might,” Illya murmured.

At least he was no longer dodging bullets – not that he could avoid the missiles in this exposed position anyway – as something seemed to be happening down below. Luckily, King’s men seemed preoccupied with something other than using him for target practice. At ground level, he could see the flash of gunfire as shots were exchanged; voices were shouting, people running around in the floodlit grounds. It would seem that help had arrived, albeit tardily.

Napoleon’s foot appeared near Illya’s face and he felt a strong arm reaching out to him, pulling him upwards with a strength that seemed impossible, given their current perilous situation. Illya tried to help as best he could with his good arm and with a little effort on his part and assistance from the American, he soon found himself lying on the flat roof, staring up at the stars. There was a noise in the distance, the chuffing sound of a helicopter. Illya prayed it was one of their own.

“Ow!” He flinched and tried to pull away as something pressed against the wound on his arm.

“I’m sorry,” Napoleon said, holding him in place, “but I need to keep the pressure on this injury. You’re bleeding like a stuck pig.”

Illya looked up at the handsome face and relaxed. This crazy American would take care of him.

Napoleon glanced up and smiled, as a helicopter hovered overhead. “I think the cavalry’s arrived,” he shouted over the noise of the rotors.

 

Illya looked up as the door to Mr. Waverly’s office slid open with a pneumatic hiss. Mark Slate strode through with Napoleon Solo close on his heels. He saw Napoleon glance about, rapidly taking in the layout of the office before settling his gaze on the occupants. His eyes flickered disinterestedly over Mr. Waverly seated to Illya’s right, then back to the blond. Illya’s right arm was cradled in a black sling, holding his arm immobile while his injury healed. The loss of motion wouldn’t inhibit him much. Illya was ambidextrous — which meant he could still write his report.

Napoleon’s gaze settled fondly on Illya’s face and his eyebrow rose, asking Illya a silent question. _Are you okay?_ Illya nodded slightly, the movement almost undetectable. _I’m fine._

“Please, gentlemen,” Mr. Waverly was saying to the two newcomers. “Take a seat.”

Slate and Solo both reached out to take the chair next to Illya at the same time. Slate smiled, offered an apology and deferred to their guest, stepping to one side to take the next chair

“Mr. Solo, I’d like to thank you personally for your help and support of Mr. Kuryakin during this rather trying affair. Thanks to your assistance, the book has been retrieved and its contents are being made public as we speak. The scandal should close down Mr. King’s activities permanently.”

“And Mr. King along with it, we can but hope,” Illya added with a touch of malice.

“Precisely,” Mr. Waverly agreed.

“I was only too glad to be of assistance, sir,” Napoleon replied smoothly, though he suspected that Illya may have exaggerated his role in the night’s events.

Waverly glanced at a folder that was open before him on top of the desk. “Mr. Kuryakin was very precise in detailing your part in this affair and made certain recommendations regarding yourself. In his opinion, you appear to have the sort of attributes that this organization is looking for in an operative: intelligence, the ability to remain calm under pressure and certain other, ah, skills which might be considered useful.”

“Sir?”

“I’m offering you a position in our organization, Mr. Solo. Subject to certain conditions, of course. You will be required to undertake rigorous and strict training, for instance. However, you should know, that if you choose to accept this offer of employment, this organization does not tolerate or condone criminal activity. Unless it is beneficial to the mission, of course,” Mr. Waverly added, almost as an afterthought.

Waverly’s bushy brows rose and Napoleon had the feeling the old man knew every detail of his private endeavors. He glanced briefly at the Russian by his side, but his friend’s attention was on his superior.

Friend... How strange. It was the first time Napoleon had thought about Illya in that way and yet it seemed that Illya had always been his friend.

“It would mean giving up your other... source of income, naturally,” Waverly continued, “but our organization can offer you substantial benefits, Mr. Solo, such as travel, expense accounts, health insurance.”

_Especially health insurance_ , thought Illya, who was considered one of U.N.C.L.E.’s highest risks.

“I’d like you to take some time to consider my proposal. If you decide to take up my offer, you can contact me through Mr. Kuryakin.”

“I’ll be sure to give it some serious thought, Mr. Waverly. And thank you very much.” Napoleon was surprised that he meant it, too. It was the first time in his life that anyone had shown confidence in him. Somehow he knew that this was the beginning of a new life – and it felt so right. Once more fate had stepped in.

“Well. If that’s all, gentlemen,” Mr. Waverly said, bringing the meeting to a close as he turned towards his other desk, leafing through a sheaf of papers.

Under the table, Napoleon’s hand slipped onto the blond’s thigh as he leaned close to the Russian and whispered, “Lots of benefits, huh? I can think of one straight away.”

Illya threw a warning glance towards Slate, but Mark was already out of his chair and waiting by the door. As the three of them exited Waverly’s office, Mark turned to Illya. “Can I offer you a lift home?”

“Erm...” Illya glanced at Napoleon, uncertain.

“I have a car waiting downstairs,” Napoleon said, stepping into the breach. “I’m sure you’re busy, Mark. I don’t mind taking the invalid home.”

Mark grinned in ill-disguised relief. Illya was good friend, but a real grouch when he was hurt . “He’s all yours. Call me if you need anything,” he said to lllya as he walked away.

 

When they got to the underground parking lot, the place was quiet and deserted. Napoleon held open the passenger door and waited till his injured friend slid into the seat before getting into the car himself.

Napoleon watched as Illya tried awkwardly to pull the seatbelt across, inhibited by the sling.

“Here, let me,” Napoleon offered, turning to the side and reaching across. His hand connected with the belt and stayed there as he suddenly became aware of the close proximity of Illya’s body. The pale face was inches from his own and Napoleon looked up into beautiful blue eyes that stared back at him. His attention shifted to those full lips as Illya’s tongue licked nervously at his bottom lip.

Napoleon couldn’t move. He was rooted to the spot, reluctant to leave the warmth and solidness of the body that had been the participant of many a fantasy over the last few weeks.

Like the irresistible gravitational pull of the earth, Napoleon felt himself drawn inexorably to Illya’s mouth, pleased when he made no objection or attempt to move away. It was a brief kiss, one that asked the question Napoleon couldn’t put into words.

The Russian answered it in return as he leaned forward and recaptured Napoleon’s lips in a passionate kiss. The American clutched tightly at the seatbelt strap that still dangled free by Illya’s head, as if to anchor himself in place as he allowed himself the luxury of enjoying this first, uninhibited contact. The kiss seemed to go on forever and when Napoleon finally broke away, he wasn’t surprised to see that the windows had begun to steam up.

“A time and a place for everything, you said,” Napoleon reminded Illya, sliding his hand down to rest over the Russian’s heart.

Illya pressed forward. “Well, now I am officially on sick leave. So I have the time.”

Napoleon smiled, leaning in to brush a kiss against pliant lips. “And this is a secure area – and as good a place as any.” Napoleon leaned across to get better access to the body he’d dreamed of for such a long time, but the shift-stick caught on his jacket, hindering his progress. He sighed. “Or perhaps not. Why don’t we go back to my apartment? We can get more comfortable there.”

“Why not? But there is just one thing - do you promise not to tie me up again?”

Napoleon smiled wolfishly. “No.”

Illya laughed, a sound that delighted Napoleon. “That’s what I thought. Drive,” Illya ordered imperiously as he settled more comfortably in the seat.

Perhaps, Illya thought, Napoleon had been correct all along. This felt right, natura.l And who was he to argue with destiny?

Napoleon started the engine and drove out into the early morning light of a new day.

**THE END**

 


End file.
